


sechs Herzen die brennen

by moon_waves



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Angst, Drabble Collection, Drama, Friendship, Gen, Herzeleid Era, Hurt/Comfort, LIFAD Era, Mutter Era, Rosenrot Era
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2020-10-26 02:46:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20734982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_waves/pseuds/moon_waves
Summary: A collection of drabbles cross-posted from tumblr - each drabble is based on a writing prompt.





	1. “What you did what stupid and dangerous and scared the hell out of me.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What you did what stupid and dangerous and scared the hell out of me.” / Paul Landers & Christoph Schneider / Gen / Friendship, Angst

> **“What you did what stupid and dangerous and scared the hell out of me.”**

_ [Berlin, December 2009.](https://youtu.be/f4lSoCRoyyE) _

“It was an accident,” Paul mumbled onto his guitar, feeling his stage outfit stick to his back, the familiar post-concert smell of sweat and kerosene mixing into his nose in an alliance that was none too pleasant.

“You almost walked _right into fire_,” Schneider hissed, hair sticking in every direction, drums sticks stuck in one pocket, “at the beginning of our show! It isn’t even our first date on the tour! We rehearsed! We know our positions! _Or we’re supposed to, at least!_”

“Nothing happened,” Paul grumbled, regretfully giving his guitar away to one of the technicians that were lounging around, looking like they wanted to be anywhere but here - and yeah, okay, maybe he could understand the feeling of not wanting to get caught in the middle of a metal band arguing.

Still, he regretted the flimsy protection holding his guitar afforded him.

“Thanks to Till!” Schneider exploded, and Ollie almost tripped at the sound, nervously looking behind him.

Paul followed his gaze and noticed that their anxious leader was dragging his feet a few meters away, looking a bit pale under the unforgiving lights of the corridor, Richard chatting next to him, the two of them apparently oblivious to the argument unfolding - _apparently_.

“- our use of pyro is already dangerous enough as it is,” Schneider was still going, and Paul caught Flake’s gaze, exchanging a long look with him, “and if we start not paying attention to what’s going on -”

The last technician who was still around scurried away, Ollie’s bass safely secured in his hands.

“_It was an accident_, Doom, calm down!” Paul finally snapped, not appreciating getting a dress-down in the middle of the corridor. “Nothing happened -”

“Thanks to Till!”

“- thanks to Till, so stop freaking out! I think we all got a reminder to be careful when on stage, so calm down. Everything is _fine_,” and Paul insisted on the last word, feeling the nervous restless energy that came after a concert to be weighing down on him.

“It’s better to get _that kind_ of wake-up call than for one of us to actually get injured,” Ollie pipped up, putting a hand on Schneider’s shoulder - and the gesture seemed enough to finally ground him down.

He stopped in his tracks, their dressing rooms not very far anymore - hell, Paul could see the door of _his _room from his position - but the corridor was blissfully empty and it was obvious they needed to talk it out now rather than later. 

Schneider put a hand on his face, breathing loudly. Flake leaned against the wall and Paul looked at him again, the two of them wordlessly exchanging a short conversation with a few raised eyebrows, head tilts and a couple of shrugs.

“I don’t want anything to happen to one of us on stage, not when we can avoid it,” Schneider finally said in a low voice.

His hand wasn’t covering his face anymore and he looked exhausted all of a sudden, as if all fight had been drained out from his body in a few respirations.

“Nothing _has _happened,” Flake pointed out, voice calm and even as their bandmates finally walked up to them.

“And nothing will,” Richard said in an affirmative tone, shoulder bumping against Till’s. “As long as we all look after each other. Right?”

There was a loud noise of agreement and everybody nodded. Paul noticed how his friends were all looking a bit pale under the halogen lights and he wondered if it was the same for him, too - his little mishaps seemed to have had more of an impact than he had expected, and he felt slightly guilty about it.

“Great, now let’s get change and go back to the hotel,” Till said quietly, first squeezing his shoulder before aiming for Schneider’s back, gently patting it. “A good night of rest and we can put tonight behind us, right?”

They all voiced their agreement again and Paul watched as Till made a beeline for his dressing room, Richard on his heels and Ollie following suit, although not before giving him a pointed look.

Flake looked at the two of them before sighing loudly, shaking his head and walking away, an undecipherable expression on his face.

Only Schneider and him remained in the corridor, an unmistakable bout of tension still awkwardly hovering between them.

“Sorry about that,” Schneider finally said, stiffly gesturing in the direction of the stage. “It's just…” a laugh escaped him, sounding a little bitter. “You scared the hell out of me, that’s all.”

“You said that before,” Paul pointed out in a gentle voice. “Come on, Doom, it was probably more impressive from your point of view than from mine, but I’m okay, nothing happened. Till makes sure of that on stage, remember?”

Schneider nodded again, looking a bit bashful, and Paul rolled his eyes before coming to hug him, patting him on the back. The drummer returned back the embrace with surprising strength, especially after a concert, and Paul was a little surprised to feel him shake ever so slightly.

“Be more careful next time, that’s all,” Schneider said as they separated, taking advantage of his height to muss up Paul’s hair, smiling a little as it got an indignant shout out of the guitarist.

They mock-wrestled in the corridor as they walked to their dressing room, the argument already gone and forgotten behind them - but if they all were more careful around the pyrotechnics during their next few shows, well, who could blame them? 


	2. “Please don’t leave.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Please don’t leave.” / Till Lindemann & Oliver Riedel / Gen / Drama, Angst

> **“Please don’t leave.”**

_France, Studio Miraval, May 2000._

“Ollie…”

The begging tone in Till’s voice was the only thing that made Ollie turn around on his heels, fists clenched at his sides. Everybody was looking at him, even Richard - and for once, it seemed that something had managed to reach him from the depths of his dazed state. Nevertheless, Ollie ignored them all - Flake curled on the couch with fake-nonchalance, Paul standing between Schneider and Richard, who both seemed ready to get physical at any given time now - focusing instead on Till, who looked absolutely defeated next to Richard, one hand on his arm, sorrow weighing on his broad shoulders. 

Utter misery was clear in his eyes and the sight was enough for Ollie to pinch his lips before speaking - even though he had been intent on making a grand, dramatic exit, as words seemed to not be enough anymore.

“I’m going out for a smoke,” he said in a clipped voice before turning away and walking through the door, closing it rather violently behind him, feeling it rattle with satisfaction.

He faintly heard loud voices rising again but didn’t walk back inside, rather making his way outside their French studio until he reached the outside porch behind it. He leaned down against the wall, ignoring the scenery for the few seconds it took him to get out his pack of cigarettes. He was surprised to notice with cold detachment that his hands were shaking a little as he lit up his cigarette, the flame flimsy on top of his lighter until he covered it.

He closed his eyes as he took the first drag, letting the smoke fill his mouth and nose until he had no choice but getting it out. Only then did he open his eyes again, staring blearily at the vineyard spread out in front of him. Even the weather was against him - the sun was shining timidly between clouds and he could hear birds chirping away as if they didn’t have a care in the world. 

Footsteps were carefully approaching but he refused to turn his head to greet his bandmate, too angry for that. Whether it was Paul or Flake, he didn’t want to talk to any of them - and there was no risk of any of the other to walk out of the room like he had done, not when Doom and Richard were already at each other’s throat, and Till was staying near to keep them separated should things get physical.

He almost wanted it to happen, if he was being honest with himself - at least it would get rid off (some of) the godforsaken tension that was permeating their every moves ever since Richard had walked in with his newfound authoritarian attitude, music ready under his arm, Paul already knowing about it.

Doom had exploded, Flake had turned acidic, he personally had lost his goddamn nerves and even Paul had had enough by the time they had - slowly, painfully - managed to record three songs. Till, of course, had tried to play peacemaker, but his siding with Richard hadn’t actually helped. (Not as much as he would have liked it, in any case, and Ollie almost felt bad for sneering over his attempts at keeping the peace - but he was too angry right now for any guilt to reach him.)

“You’re not going to leave the band, are you?”

Ollie turned his head so fast he heard the bones crack, but he ignored the sound, surprised to see Till standing next to him, the usual worried look ever present on his face.

“I thought you would have stayed there,” Ollie muttered without answering his question, vaguely astonished he had misjudged the situation - he usually wasn’t so far off the mark, as far as his bandmates were concerned.

His lighter was out at the same time Till brought a cigarette to his lips and he lit it up mechanically, taking advantage of his position to take a good look at his friend. Addiction was clearly visible on Richard, but Till had looked better until then - but here, from such a close vantage, the heavy bags under his eyes were hard to miss, as well as the thinness of his skin.

He looked pale in the cold spring light, almost brittle despite his strong stature, and Ollie felt a protective feeling surge through him, washing away some of his anger. 

“I don’t want you to leave,” Till said simply, leaning against the wall next to him after having taken a long drag from his cigarette.

Ollie studied him for a moment before shrugging, barely looking at the sparrows that were jumping from one row of vines to another.

“Well, I don’t really want to leave either,” he said slowly, finding some comfort in seeing Till next to him. “But _this_,” and he vaguely gestured towards the inside of the house, not missing the grimace that appeared on Till’s face, “I don’t want any of this. How on _Earth _are we supposed to keep going if we can’t even record an album together?”

He was getting worked up again and quickly took a drag from his cigarette, noticing that Till’s eyes were following his every moves - like he was some kind of scared animal one shouldn’t spook.

_He did have experience in taming wild beasts_, Ollie thought none too charitably, his mind drifting away to their lead guitarist for a brief moment before he shook his head and focused back on the matter at hand. 

“We’re not fit to tour like _that_,” he added in a sour voice, tapping his cigarette against an ashtray. 

“It might actually be easier to spend two hours a day on stage together and then go on our separate way than spend weeks holed up in a recording studio,” Till pointed out quietly, still studying him with thoughtful attention. “But I know what you mean.”

He sighed, turning his eyes towards the vineyard and then to the forest behind it, seemingly seeing animals moving there - and maybe he did, hunter as he was.

“Believe me, I know,” he added in a quieter voice, and Ollie reached for his shoulder on an impulse, squeezing it gently.

Anger would do him no good here, and he was tired of it already - he wanted for his bandmates to be _friends again_, damnit.

“I’m not leaving the band,” Ollie promised quietly, and Till turned to look at him, a faint smile on his lips.

Ollie felt his lips move into a smile too, and they both turned to look at the forest while finishing their cigarette, taking their fill of the peaceful nature laid out in front of them. 

It was too soon when they had to go back inside, and Ollie felt himself straighten up, shoulders squaring as they made their way through the corridors and then into the living room. Loud voices could already be heard, the agitated noise enough to get them to walk a little faster - and yes, Doom and Richard were almost getting to blows, Paul and Flake standing between them in an effort to keep them from hitting each other.

Ollie grimaced at the view, barely listening to the argument - if it could be called an argument, when insults were being exchanged and fists almost flying. He watched with detachment as Till got in the middle and forcibly dragged Richard away into another room, Paul’s attention immediately flicking back onto Doom in an effort to get him to calm down, while Flake was raising his arms to the sky, obviously fired up by whatever had went down during his and Till's brief absence.

Maybe he wasn’t going to leave the band, but some days he almost regretted having joined it.


	3. “Stop this. You’re just hurting yourself.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Stop this. You’re just hurting yourself.” / Paul Landers & Till Lindemann, Paul Landers & Oliver Riedel / Gen / Angst, Hurt/Comfort

> **“Stop this. You’re just hurting yourself.”**

_Romania, November 2005._

“I’m not hurting myself,” Till said slowly, looking from the coffee he had put back on the table to Paul with incredulity. “I’m not doing _anything at all_, Paul.”

The two of them weren’t even in their costumes yet, lounging outside next to a table covered in breakfast food and thermos full of coffee for the dressing room to be accessible again - an unfortunate incident involving mice and a thermos full of tea, from what Paul had understood.

The guitarist scoffed before grabbing the singer by the arm, forcibly dragging him away from the crowd of technicians and figurants that had gathered in the field where they were shooting the last scenes of their music video for _Rosenrot_. The wind, although soft, was already biting his cheeks as he brought them to a higher vantage point, the grass almost slippery under their feet.

“Don’t try to bullshit me, Till”, Paul hissed in annoyance, quickly scanning their surroundings to make sure no one could walk on them without being seen first. “You think I don’t know how you’re feeling this morning? I bled almost as much as you did, yesterday, _and my back is killing me_. And those are the most skin-fitting clothes you have, too.”

“I hadn’t realized you knew my wardrobe by heart,” Till said in return, an eyebrow rising slowly.

Tease or challenge, or both, he didn’t know, and right now, he didn’t care - his back was hurting him too much for that, as if someone was repeatedly hitting him right into a big sunburn, and he couldn't understand how Till managed to act like everything was _normal_.

_“Don’t try to change the conversation,”_ Paul hissed, stepping closer to him.

He knew he didn’t have much time before someone noticed their disappearance - although he was certain Doom and Flake would cover for them, no question asked, if things came to it, but the other two? It wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have - not until they were back in Berlin, in any case. _And worst of all, if someone else was to walk on them..._

“I can hardly get back inside and change clothes now,” Till said with a shrug, eyes flickering from him to the crowd and then back on him again, an undecipherable expression on his face - gone was his playfulness. “And my clothes aren’t too tight, Paul. They fit just fine.”

Paul huffed, tapping his foot on the ground with nervousness. Time was wasting away and it seemed to be another one of those situations where Till would just _refuse _to admit he was voluntarily putting himself in harm’s way. They had thought they would manage to avoid this exact kind of situation by outlining the story together, but they had been mistaken in the end - and he wanted nothing more than for the painkillers he had taken when waking up to start _kicking on_.

Maybe he should have let Richard handle it - but it was too late for that now.

“Take off your jacket, then,” he ordered, noticing the way Till’s eyebrows suddenly went up.

He seemed to hesitated for a moment, eyes drifting to the crowd before focusing back on him. Paul’s words hovered between them for a few seconds, stretching into the coldness of November morning before he obeyed, one eyebrow still raised in challenge.

“Satisfied now?” he said with a smirk, taunting him. “I hadn’t gotten the feeling you were too inclined in taking off your clothes outside yesterday, Paul, but you surprise me, and not in a bad way.”

Paul didn’t even bother answering, instead roughly putting his hand between sweatshirt and shirt, the gesture harsh enough that it got a hiss of pain out of Till before he scolded his figure again. A warm liquid seeped through the tissue and stained his hand in the few seconds he let it there before taking it away, keeping his palm open in the bright morning light.

There were faint traces of blood on his skin.

Till remained silent, face stone-cold all of a sudden, green eyes piercing into his soul. Paul could see his walls rising up and up, closing him, closing _everyone_ off until someone managed to reach him from whichever well of darkness and misery was going to swallow him whole at any time now. 

(Richard was going to _kill him_.)

Paul licked his lips and open his mouth before closing it, words dying in his throat before he could even get them out. This was the kind of situation he wasn't at ease with - he wasn't the one knowing his way around words, and in a time like that, words might not even be enough anyway.

_Hurting himself, and us at the same time_, Paul thought bitterly, desperately trying to find a way to reach out to Till, the blood on his hand almost burning him.

They stared at each other in silence for what seemed to be a long time, a few breaths lasting into eternity, until the footsteps of someone approaching forced them to react.

“Put your jacket back on,” Paul muttered before shoving his hand into his pocket, a frown etched on his face. “Not the time you get sick and lose your voice.”

“Whose idea was it that I take it off?” Till answered in the same way, bundling up in a swift movement, and yet refusing to meet his eyes again. 

Paul's back _hurt_ just from watching him moving so carelessly and he looked away for a seconds, forcing himself to bottle down his anger. 

“Are you satisfied now?”

“No, I’m _not_,” Paul hissed, barely taking a step back as Ollie reached them, one eyebrow raised in an interrogative manner.

“Are you guys coming or what? Rich is particularly twitchy this morning,” he added in Till’s direction, gesturing to the crowd behind him - and Paul spotted the rest of the band looking in their direction, a cloud of smoke hovering over them. “He’s been looking for you, you know.”

“I’m coming,” Till muttered, nodding in their direction before taking off - almost fleeing, if Paul was pissed off enough to be uncharitable.

He _was_ pissed off, and kicked off a rock in order to forget about the throbbing pain in his back for a brief second.

“Did you talk to him?” Ollie asked once the singer was out of earshot, a serious expression on his face.

“About what?” Paul asked, half-playing dumb and half-wondering if Ollie had noticed something.

“About the fact he tore open the skin of his back yesterday?” Ollie said in return, eyebrow moving from an interrogative position to a slightly challenging one. “Don’t tell me you didn’t notice his choice of clothes today - my back feels like a giant sunburn this morning, and I was way better off than him when we finished yesterday.”

Paul sighed, shaking his head, anger slowly merging into misery.

“He tried to play dumb, I tried to confront him,” he showed his palm to Ollie, the blood already dried on his skin, “and then you arrived.”

The bassist grimaced, bitterness slowly taking place on his face.

“Bad timing, sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not.”

They both looked at each other before sighing. A steady noise was still coming from the crowd and Paul focused on their friends, noticing the way Richard was standing next to Till, two cups of steaming coffee in his hands. He was too far away to see clearly the expression on the other guitarist’s face, but his posture was enough to indicate he had gone into what they had dubbed his _over-protective attitude - _somebody was going to get their head bitten off before lunch if they as much as breathed in the wrong direction.

He wasn’t the only one, looking at Doom and Flake’s positions, all four of them huddled tight together, talking animatedly. His eyes tracked Till's every move, taking the cup of coffee Richard offered him with a little nod - and yes, he hadn't noticed before, but Till definitely was a little more tense than the day before, shoulders squaring in a straighter line than usual every time he moved and his clothes shifted against his back.

Ollie nudged him gently and they left their spot, Paul almost dragging his feet through the wet grass. It was freezing, and the excitement of the first day of shooting had disappeared, the pain on his back threatening to overwhelm everything else.

Those stupid painkillers still hadn’t kicked in and he started wondering if they were ever going to do so.

He was starting to feel stupid for having confronted Till so directly - he knew what kind of results that attitude usually brought, and today had been no exception - but the pain had been almost too much when he started to move around his room earlier in the morning, and the thought of Till going through _worse_, then acting as if nothing was wrong... no, he hadn't been able to keep his temper in check, and he almost regretted it now.

“I don’t want to work with Zoran anymore,” Ollie muttered, the sourness on his face slowly disappearing into an impassible mask as they came across the first figurants. “The guy knows how to make videos that fit our songs, but… you know.”

He seemed to hesitate for a moment, licking his lips and opening his mouth before finally shaking his head, looking sideways at Paul with what seemed to be a sorry expression. What Ollie wanted to apologize for, he wasn't entirely sure about, but he understood his feelings about their director.

“Yeah,” Paul said, nodding, the pain in his back throbbing steadily - when where the painkillers going to kick off, honestly? “I know.”

They quickly joined their friends, the circle reforming upon their arrival, and Paul caught Flake’s eyes, who slightly tilted his head in Till and Richard’s direction, eyebrow moving in a meaningful manner. The two of them weren’t doing anything in particular, apart from standing really close to each other, but something on Richard’s face seemed off.

His eyes were cold - almost colder than the current temperature.

_Definitely going to bite someone's head off_, and he couldn't even blame the guy - he felt half inclined to do the same.

“It’s high time we go back to Berlin and our heated apartments,” Doom said with a little snort, hands hidden in the long sleeves of his costume before exchanging a short, meaningful look with Ollie.

“No kidding,” Flake muttered, white smoke coming from his mouth as he spoke, and they all agreed loudly, Paul gratefully thanking the assistant walking by who offered him a cup of coffee.

Flake's bony arm pressed against his as they huddled together, the circle fully formed now. Such amount of physical contact was to be expected between all six of them, especially given the weather, but for whomever knew them well enough, a chape of possessive protectiveness had fallen over their group. 

There were limits to what he was ready to do for art - and considering the exchange of looks that was happening in front of him, he wasn’t the only one in that position.


	4. “They better hope I never get my hands on them. They won’t like what happens if I do.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “They better hope I never get my hands on them. They won’t like what happens if I do.” / Band-fic / Gen / Friendship, Hurt/Comfort

_Winter 1994._

“They better hope I never get my hands on them. They won’t like what happens if I do.”

Ollie snorted at the words and then immediately hissed in pain as the corners of his mouth teared up again at the small gesture, droplets of blood running down his skin. Cold hands were immediately on him, one holding a damp piece of cloth to his mouth while the other held his neck upright. He whined a little at the touch, straying away before being put back in position almost immediately.

“Quit moving,” a rough voice grumbled somewhere over his head.

He half-moved his left shoulder in an attempt at shrugging before wincing again. It seemed there wasn’t a single move he could do without it bringing some fresh new pain, and he grumbled in the privacy of his mind at the realization.

“Close your eyes for a moment, Ollie,” a softer voice intimated and he obeyed.

A fresh, cool piece of cloth was applied against his eyebrow – the superciliary arch underneath, truly, and he tensed for a brief moment when he realized it was nothing more than a pack of ice that had been hurriedly wrapped up before relaxing a little. It felt _good _– that was probably the only good sensation he could feel right.

“Move of the way, Schneider, I need to put ice on his shoulder,” the rough voice said, and he bit back a smile at the very matter-of-fact tone.

Leave it to Till to be perfectly in charge of patching up one of his bandmates.

“Are you sure we shouldn’t bring him to an hospital? The bruises around his ribs are _shocking_,” and there was Paul, voice less assured than usual.

There was some shuffling around him and the presence that had been standing to his left, one hand cupping his head upright, moved away before he felt a massive frame towering over him.

For once.

He didn’t mind the change.

“It didn’t seem broken, when I put ice before bandaging him,” Till said, voice a little ruff over his head. “Hey, Ollie, inhale as much as you can, hold it for a few seconds and then exhale. If everything feels okay, thumbs, if not, thumbs down.”

He waited until a pack of ice was applied over his shoulder – and damn, it was a _big _one, no wonder Till had been in charge of it before doing what had been asked. There was no weird feeling as he inhaled and exhaled three times for good measure – couldn’t be too careful – before slowly raising his thumb up, mindful not to put too much strain on his shoulders.

_Those _hurt like a bitch, and he wasn’t even thinking about his back.

“See? No need for an hospital.”

“Leave it to Till to know about that kind of stuff,” Flake muttered somewhere in front of him and he chuckled before whining as more blood dripped down.

Ugh, _messy_. 

It was a good thing it was shirtless, no worries if he could get the blood off from his shirt. 

He just wasn’t going to think about the fact the guys had had to cut his shirt before putting him in the shower. He had _liked _that shirt – it had acted as a lucky charm for him many times before.

The chance factor probably had worn out by now, considering that he had gotten his ass kicked to hell and back in a four-against-one street fight. He hadn’t even gotten a good look at his assailants, only knew they had thought him a good target, demure as he looked, and had managed to get him to the ground and run off with all the money he had had on him that evening.

That was the only small mercy he had been given – it had been only pocket change and two ten marks bills he had meant to use to buy some alcohol for their little party that night. Of course, that also meant he had walked in Paul and Flake’s flat covered in blood and with his shirt ripped, sticking to his skin, moderately new jeans with a definite punk look and pain radiating all over his body from the bad fall he had suffered from.

“I’m definitely going to make them regret that,” Richard grumbled from the other side of the small living room.

Ollie imagined more than he saw the half-condescending pat Schneider delivered on the ruffled guitarist, all too familiar from their time as roommates with his easily riled-up temper. The show of concern warmed him and he relaxed a little more under Till’s hands, docilely following as he was slowly turned around on his stool until he faced the little chimney of the apartment.

“Ollie said he couldn’t recognize them, and that there weren’t any witnesses anyway,” Flake pointed out from afar – the kitchen, probably, he could hear water boiling.

“We know who is hanging around those streets,” came the prompt report and he tuned out the conversation, focusing more on the strong, warm hands carefully manipulating his battered body.

It felt _nice_, being looked after like that – and although he often struggled with his position as the youngest of their new fledging band, for once, he was going to bask in the feeling. 

“Pass me the disinfectant, Paul, would you?” he heard Till ask over him.

Knowing he had ignored a bit of the conversation, he tried to open his one eye that wasn’t covered with a damp cloth before reluctantly closing it again. Well, he was in for a shiner for sure – nevermind, it would only be uncomfortable for a couple of days.

He was more worried about the state of his back, truth be told - some skin had been flayed on the pavement during the attack, and he had to bit on the inside of his cheeks as the disinfectant was applied on his wounds. It burnt terribly and he felt Paul’s hand gently patting his thigh with sympathy – probably the closest part of his body that wasn’t covered in bandage or in ice, but rather hidden under a towel that was a bit too short for his standards.

“I think my pants are going to be a bit too short for you Ollie, but that will be better than nothing,” Flake said in front of him and he tried to turned his head to follow the voice before feeling a calloused hand gently directing him back in position.

Schneider was back hovering around him, then, and he squirmed on the stool at the realization that all of them were standing more or less closely in a circle around him. There was Till behind, taking care of his back, and Paul at his left, Schneider at his right, which meant Flake and Richard were in front of him.

“Bandages,” Till grunted and he heard soft footsteps walking before coming back almost immediately.

“Shouldn’t we let his bruises breathe a little?” Paul asked, moving closer to him.

Peering over his shoulder to look at Till’s work, probably.

“Pass me the arnica cream,” Till said before moving onto his shoulder, finally putting the ice away. “On his back, yes, but not on his shoulders. Sorry Ollie, but you’re going to have to skip on playing for a couple of days.”

Ollie made a little face, grimaced at the weird sensation around his mouth and then made a weird gesture with his hand that he knew would be taken as an agreement. It was fine with him – he could consider himself lucky his wrists had come out unharmed, and the few cuts on his fingers were nothing he couldn’t deal with.

Hadn’t dealt with before, while learning to play the bass.

“Do worry about dinner now, Scholle, please?” Till said with a grunt and Ollie immediately nodded, stomach complaining loudly at the same moment.

Chuckles followed and he soon heard two pairs of footsteps moving away, cold air following in their wake. He shivered a little, carefully bringing one arm around his waist as Till was working on his shoulder before feeling something warm and soft with use landing on the other side of his body, carefully held by someone’s hand.

“The comforter works very well as a cape, too,” Paul said over his head and Ollie felt the corner of his mouth stretch into a smile. “I mean, it’s not like a sweatshirt, but it’s better than nothing and –”

“Thank you,” Ollie said quietly before feeling a strong hand gently squeezing the part of his shoulder that wasn’t hurting. “All of you,” he added, fully aware that his words carried in the small apartment.

“Oh, come on Ollie, that’s what friends are for,” came from the kitchen.

Footsteps again and then there were multiple pair of arms surrounding him, shoulders and waist and legs, patting him when possible. His smile grew some more – without blood this time – and he relaxed in the embrace, fully warmed up by the presence of his friends.

Yeah, he had lucked out with those guys.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is more than welcome :)
> 
> [tumblr](https://ghostlovesc0re.tumblr.com/).


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